


Alka-Seltzer and a Tofurky Club Would’ve Been an Acceptable But Less Enjoyable Alternative

by FrenchTwistResistance



Series: I’ve Always Been Crazy But It’s Kept Me from Going Insane [7]
Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, I just want caos to be a sitcom where hot middle-aged ladies kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:55:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22583647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrenchTwistResistance/pseuds/FrenchTwistResistance
Summary: Hilda’s hungover and seeking a solution to that problem.
Relationships: Hilda Spellman/Mary Wardwell | Madam Satan | Lilith
Series: I’ve Always Been Crazy But It’s Kept Me from Going Insane [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1597594
Comments: 6
Kudos: 10





	Alka-Seltzer and a Tofurky Club Would’ve Been an Acceptable But Less Enjoyable Alternative

“Did I fulfill your needs?” Mary Wardwell says, a whispered leer as her eyes rake up and down Hilda’s exposed body.

Hilda’s standing there in the all-ladies-24-hour-gym-in-a-strip-mall locker room in her sports bra and utilitarian cotton panties, sweaty and still pony-tailed. She feels extra-justified in her dislike and distrust of gymnasiums after this horrible experience and vows to herself to recommit herself to in-home calisthenics. After Mary had not only answered her middle-of-the-night phone call but had also agreed to be her own beard, as it were, and had behaved herself the whole way through—not to mention that little display at the NHS Jungle Party—Hilda figures she’s built up enough social capital with her that she could reasonably say no the next time Mary might suggest something like this, if she were to do that in the first place. Hilda suspects Mary curates their experiences for optimal enjoyment for both of them.

Her mind’s wandering. It’s what happens when she’s overheated and fuzzy-headed and vaguely anxious—the latter of which, of course, having been caused by Ambrose’s ghostly reconnaissance visit—and Mary’s looking at her with such hunger and expectation to put her even more off kilter.

This is the point where she would usually swallow her misgivings and capitulate. Or perhaps that’s not the right term for it. Having carnal relations with Mary is not an act of subjugation and she doesn’t merely comply. However their encounters might begin, with whatever power dynamics, with whatever initial demands, the cap of them—as well as the impetus for them—is a mutual and equal desire which is eventually mutually and equally fulfilled and fulfilling. So no. The more appropriate term might be “resign.” But no, she doesn’t submit herself and blandly accept her fate, either. It’s not some obligation she’s warily come to terms with. It’s more active and enthusiastic than that although she never would’ve thought to have initiated this whole thing. Maybe the best word is “accede.” Yes, maybe that. Consent. Accepting the terms of a contract. Figuratively speaking, anyway. She doesn’t actually know what this contract entails and has not read the fine print—or any of the print. Sometimes the print seems to be written in disappearing-reappearing ink. Maybe there is no contract, just a handshake and a lady’s word. But who’s a lady in this economy?

But she’s so hungover. And she’s searching through her mental card catalogue for cues and clues and cures: greasy food or a long nap in the bright sun or a hot bath will almost always alleviate at least some of the discomfort. There’s always hair of the dog, but that idea turns her already churning stomach. A prairie oyster works sometimes but again seems rather unseemly for this morning. Typically exercise works pretty well, too, but it has mostly served to exacerbate her dizziness today. She can’t remember if sex helps or hinders as it’s so infrequently been an option. Doesn’t hurt to try, though, especially when it’s so accessible.

Mary twirls a finger around a few strands of Hilda’s very curly little baby hairs at the back of her neck that have escaped from her ponytail and leans in closer to say,

“Well, Spellman? Don’t keep me waiting for an answer too long or I might end up in a spin class instead of in—” Hilda puts a restraining hand to Mary’s chest as she’s not sure she can stand whatever vulgarity would’ve proceeded, says,

“Your service has been satisfactory so far. But I could do with a shower.” Hilda blushes but manages to give Mary a significant look—at least she’s meant it as significant—as she picks up her towel. The slight bend at her waist causes Mary’s fingers to tug her hair, but Mary unwinds herself gently, then says, low and smooth,

“I don’t think all these other gym patrons want to hear your moans. You’d better come back to my place.” Hilda raises her eyebrows in a mixture of alarm and embarrassment, and Mary follows up, “Yes. I mean exactly what it sounds like I mean.”

Hilda swallows and then nods. And Mary smiles at that.

Fifteen minutes later, Hilda’s pulled her Riviera up the gravel drive at Mary’s cottage. Mary has already arrived—she had strategically left first, after all—and the heavy wooden door is open.

Hilda still raps twice at the storm door.

“Come in,” Mary’s voice calls from somewhere inside.

Hilda enters. A shotgun structure at baseline. So she can see that foyer, kitchen, dining room, and living room are all vacant. She walks silently toward the bathroom.

And there’s Mary Wardwell leaning over the claw-foot tub, turning nobs by small increments until the temperature is just right. Hilda had thought she’d been stealthy, but Mary turns her head, says,

“The only sure hangover remedy I know is getting your hair washed. And also getting laid.” Satisfied with the water temperature and bubble-to-surface-area ratio, she stands.

Hilda leans on the door jamb. She’d known this was the inevitable conclusion and had even been looking forward to it. But she’s not trying to look like a silly infatuated ninny, so she says,

“I’m sure I won’t be—” she hadn't wanted to pause to stumble over the words and blush but she does anyway “—getting laid if your shampoo’s too strongly scented. Retching is hardly considered foreplay.” Mary takes the two steps to hover an inch away from Hilda and chuckles, warm cinnamon breath against Hilda’s temple. She says,

“As if I hadn’t thought of that. I don’t know how or why you always forget that I’m a consummate planner.” She kisses Hilda’s jaw, lightly, butterflying from below the ear all the way to chin. “Are you going to get naked, or am I going to have to do it for you?”

“I think I can manage… If you can manage,” Hida says.

Mary laughs a full laugh, throws her head back as she grabs Hilda’s hips and pulls. They connect—a whisper of a connection, just a brush of fabric on fabric—and Mary says,

“I like it when you dare me.”

Hilda feels Mary’s soft skin under her fingertips as she clutches at her neck.

“Have I dared you? I’ve missed that somehow.”

Mary’s fingers drag seamlessly from hips to the hem of t-shirt, and Mary grips and raises, excavates rapidly goosebumping skin and quivering muscles. Shirt discarded. Bra discarded quickly after. 

“You don’t miss anything. You just choose to ignore certain things.” Hilda laughs, and Mary takes the opportunity to dip down and lave Hilda’s sternum, tongue everywhere on collarbones, teeth chasing and nipping. As Mary’s hands travel to her waistband, Hilda skims Mary’s neck and latches on to her collar, begins unzipping Mary’s stylish track jacket. There’s bare, tanned skin beneath, and Hilda gasps as her fingertips graze rib cage and then stomach and then the upper ridge of jutting hip bone.

“I don’t know if I can manage, after all,” Hilda pants.

“I can appreciate a woman who knows her limits,” Mary says.

Hilda feels her leggings (with the Lycra and spandex and cotton blend and also her underwear) being peeled off. Her knees buckle. She is being prodded and cajoled and submerged. She relaxes against the porcelain of the bathtub, and she relishes the warm water and lightly fragranced bubbles. 

But still she’s staring at the pile of abandoned clothes in the corner of the bathroom—some are hers, but it’s an expanding thing even as she looks on. 

A figure emerges, sliding in from the periphery, and this sight catches Hilda’s full attention. A nude Mary Wardwell, so straight-backed and confident in all her naked glory.

“I’ve yet to have my hair washed. And I’ve yet to have gotten laid,” Hilda says. “I’ve never known you to be all talk and no action but yet—”

Mary laughs and steps into the tub, one foot at a time. Careful and measured.

“You’re impatient,” Mary says as she slips in behind Hilda. They bump against each other as water spills over the edge and they settle into an equilibrium.

“I’m impatient because you’ve conditioned me for instant gratification.” Hilda says as she reclines her head on Mary’s chest behind her. 

And now there are fingers against her scalp. Hilda feels the pull. And then the effervescence of soap being massaged in and then rinsed out. Waves upon waves. The moon controls the tide, and Mary controls her own bathroom.

“You’re impatient because you’re impatient,” Mary says. “And it’s one of the many things I like about you.”

“And yet I still haven’t gotten laid,” Hilda says.

“Another dare,” Mary says as she snakes a hand around and plunges it down. She finds Hilda’s clit and circles it. Hilda groans. Mary’s circling and circling. She presses here and there, shallow penetration intermittently. And Hilda’s writhing against her, breath fast and shuddering.

xxx

Hilda’s now running at about eighty percent, which is infinitely more than she had suspected she’d be capable of for the day. She walks in the front door of Spellman Mortuary at 12:09 pm. And Zelda’s sitting at the breakfast nook, propped up behind a Brazilian newspaper, still in her silk nightdress and robe, rumpled and ragged and raw. She’s wearing sunglasses indoors, smoking what looks to be her third cigarette—if the ashtray on the table is an accurate indication—a cup of black coffee half drunk next to a dilapidated and perhaps water damaged matchbook.

Hilda had had a fantasy that she could slip by unnoticed and get upstairs for another few hours of sleep. But fantasies are fantasies for a reason.

“Coffee?” Zelda says.

“No, thank you,” Hilda says. She’s halfway to the stairs.

“Join me for mine anyway,” Zelda says. She puts down the newspaper and adds as what seems to be an afterthought, “Please.”

Hilda tries not to huff and reluctantly backtracks and even more reluctantly sits. She fidgets with the zipper of her gym bag, says,

“Sleep well, sister?”

“No. Did you?”

“No,” Hilda admits.

Zelda laughs and brings a steadying hand to her temple.

“I wanted to talk to you about something,” Zelda says.

“Oh?”

“We were all a little inebriated last night.” Hida chuckles nervously. It’s often a bad sign when Zelda utilizes understatement to make a point. “And I’m not sure I completely understood a few things you said.”

“Oh?” Hilda says again, feeling stupid for having said the same nothing twice in a row. So she adds, “And what things might those have been?”

Zelda takes up her coffee cup and sips. She scrunches her nose, purses her lips, swallows with a grimace, and then spits out,

“It’s cold. Disgusting.” She sets down the mug and then takes off her sunglasses. She squints and blinks. Her eyes focus, and they’re piercing and kind of humorously mean: “Speaking of disgusting.”

“We’re both too hungover for this conversation,” Hilda says. Zelda’s eyes pin her to her seat, and Zelda says icily,

“You don’t seem so bad off, sister. It seems you’ve found the secret elixir.” Hilda shrugs noncommittally and begins compulsively unzipping and zipping her gym bag. Zelda continues, “I respect your not wanting to discuss it. I don’t feel much like hearing your excuses and justifications and lies right now, either. But I do have one thing to ask: in what universe would you seriously expect me to believe you would willingly participate in a Zumba class?”

“I participated just this morning! Without a gun to my head! I’m sure Ambrose has already given you his report.”

Zelda narrows her eyes and then laughs.

“I think the phrase he used was ‘unpleasant and uncomfortable to watch.’” Zelda laughs again. “Look... I don’t trust that woman. But I trust you not to ruin our family over a good lay. But I’ve got to know: how good of a lay is she?” Hilda goes immediately bright red:

“Zelds! That’s—”

“None of my business; I know. Ladies don’t kiss and tell and all that polite horseshit.” She rolls her eyes, but those eyes are smiling. She suddenly snatches up her sunglasses and replaces them on her nose. “Hit the button on the coffee pot on your way upstairs, won’t you?”

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve rewritten this no fewer than four times, and although it’s dubious as to whether this really keeps in tone with the previous actually funny entries, I’m tired and might very well be out of juice. So it is what it is at this point.


End file.
